


Selling Indulgences

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcoholism, M/M, Torture, bro fic, dubcon, women in a positive light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 03:44:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2135790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dubcon. Based around 1.7. Richelieu demands something of a more personal nature from Athos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selling Indulgences

**Author's Note:**

> This is dubcon with themes of torture and alcoholism. 
> 
> I also wrote this ages ago when I was annoyed that the show was set two years after Buckingham (the greatest dandy) had died. So he is a posthumous guest star.

i)

 

"You don't need to kill her. _Please_." Athos prostrates himself at the cardinal's feet. There's no time left, he can hear the crackle of fire, smell the wood smoke, and he will not allow another woman's execution to haunt his conscience. "You can have everything that you want and still let her go free."

Richelieu contemplates this statement for a while before passing judgement. "As far as everyone is concerned the Comtesse de Larroque is dead and her lands and money will pass to the state. If she remains out of sight I shall allow her a small stipend in good grace."

"I'm certain the Comtesse will find this an acceptable arrangement, Your Eminence.” Athos looks up. “Is the sentence now commuted?"

The cardinal lays a hand on Athos’ head. “Allow me one further personal indulgence.”

The Musketeers wait impatiently for the pronouncement that will call a halt to this horrific business and, by now, Athos is prepared to do _anything_ to save Ninon from the flames. “Whatever you wish," he says, still in obeisance. "If it's in my power it will be yours.”

“Very well then,” says the cardinal, his voice strychnine sweet. “I will have you on your knees again, Athos, but this time for the sole purpose of pleasuring me. You do this and the Comtesse will be a free woman.”

Athos cannot believe he's heard right. Why would the cardinal want such a thing of him? His skin crawls at the thought, but he's vowed to save Ninon de Larroque and has no time left with which to bargain. “Then I have no choice but to agree to your demands,” he says and is on his feet and half way out of the door before the stay of execution is official.

“We have an accord,” says Richelieu, an unhealthy glint in his eyes. “The witch will not burn. Yet.”

The four men race down the steps and into the courtyard. “The sentence is commuted,” Athos shouts to the cardinal’s guards as he cuts Ninon’s bonds. "The sentence is commuted."

“I will not die today?” she gasps as she is freed.

“Not today, Madame,” says Porthos and he looks to Athos for confirmation.

“You will not die,” assures Athos. “Agree to the cardinal’s terms and you will have both your life and your liberty.”

Ninon smiles wearily at Aramis as she and Athos walk past him on their way to the cardinal’s salon. “Your God did not abandon me after all.”

Athos has little time for God and he's certain that the feeling is mutual. It will take more than a gem studded cross to help him out of his current predicament.

When they arrive back at the cardinal's chambers Richelieu is out of bed and dressed simply in breeches and a shirt. Athos is somewhat surprised he’s not wearing his clerical robes, but perhaps even he would feel it was inappropriate clothing for what was about to follow. He cannot resist a rueful half smile as he stands waiting.

Ninon agrees terms and the deal is struck. “My voice will never be silenced, but I promise you will never hear it,” she says and Athos remembers a time when he had such convictions. He also recalls, with dread, the consequences that followed.

“Today I find my vision clearer than ever." Richelieu stares out of the window and up to the Heavens. “Nothing--no person, no nation, no god--will stand in my way.”

Having been slightly hopeful that he might be able to talk himself out of this situation, Athos knows now that he is presence of a true megalomaniac. Richelieu doesn’t want _him_. He wants the power that comes from having him submit.

“You may go,” says Richelieu, dismissing them without a glance. “Athos, stay behind. We have business to attend to.”

Whilst the Comtesse is having a quiet word with Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan surround Athos and try their hardest to dissuade him from his course of action.

“You don’t have to do this,” says Porthos through gritted teeth.

“I have no choice.” Athos keeps his voice steady. “I’ll be fine.”

“Kill the cardinal,” says d’Artagnan and he is being utterly sincere.

“I can’t.” It’s something Athos has already considered and dismissed. It is of no concern to him that he would be executed for this crime, but he is loyal to the crown, and Richelieu, however despicable he might be, is the one person on whom the King depends. 

“ _I’ll_ kill him then.” Porthos sounds as grim as Athos feels.

“No. Do one thing for me,” says Athos in a low voice. “Wait with the Comtesse at Louveciennes. Tell her I’ll meet her there as soon as I am finished.”

“Athos,” pleads Porthos one last time. “Don’t do this.”

The cardinal strides the room, his hands tucked behind his back. “I believe I asked all but one of you to take your leave,” he says impatiently. “Go.”

Once they are on their own Richelieu halts his lupine pacing and stands in front of Athos. “I wonder that you submitted to me so easily. Perhaps your appetites are not quite as clear cut as you had thought.”

Athos maintains eye contact with the cardinal. “A good woman was about to burn to death in the courtyard. I believe that played a part in my hasty decision making.”

“Yet you do not dispute my conjecture.”

“My appetites are none of your business, Your Eminence. I am merely here, at your request, to service yours.”

Having an inkling that the cardinal would much prefer him to lose his temper the way he had done in the courtroom, Athos remains emotion free.

“Very well,” says Richelieu. “I was thinking of offering you an aperitif as it's no secret you enjoy a good Armagnac, but I see the time for small talk is over.”

Athos would give his right arm for a barrel of brandy, but he will not show weakness. “As you wish.”

The cardinal lets loose a quiet huff of annoyance from which Athos can derive some small pleasure. “Kneel before me,” he says. “Do not beg like last time. It was most unbecoming of a King's Musketeer.”

Athos does as he’s told and remains straight backed and unblinking, awaiting orders. That is all this is, he tells himself. He is obeying the commands of a superior officer.

“Unfasten my clothing and take me out.”

The cardinal’s cock is ready for action. It is of average size and girth and not, as Athos had imagined it, snake-like or in the shape of a devil’s tail. It is, however, more unappealing than he thought possible and the idea of having _that_ part of _that_ man in his mouth is utterly repellent.

“Get on with it,” hisses the cardinal and if his prick is not serpentine then his voice certainly is. “Do _not_ use your teeth and do not release me until I have spent. Do you understand?”

Athos nods and leans forward. I can’t, he thinks. I cannot do this.

“Now,” snarls the cardinal, "or I’ll order my guards to relight that pyre and throw Ninon de Larroque immediately back on there."

With eyes tightly shut Athos opens his mouth and inches closer until the Cardinal’s erection is contained within the boundaries of his lips. He cannot bear to do anything at first and lets it rest on his tongue, thick, drooling and foul. It’s all he can do not to reach for his parrying dagger and slice the thing off at its root.

“You can make this arrangement work for both of us, Athos,” says Richelieu pleasantly. “Or you can have a righteous woman on your conscience until the day God takes you and judges you for your sins."

Swallowing a retch of disgust Athos goes down on the Cardinal’s cock, sucking it fiercely over and over and over again until it spews up its stream of bile, then he rests back on his haunches. “Satisfied?” he asks, looking up. He's not ashamed. He has nothing to be ashamed of, unlike the man standing over him.

“Clean me with your tongue and then dress me.”

Athos knows this is a final attempt to break his spirit and he will not allow that to happen. He leans in once again to lick away the cold spendings and then stuffs that vile appendage back where it came from.

“Will that be all, Your Eminence?” he says, his voice, even to his ears, like ice water.

“It will, Athos,” says the cardinal, reaching behind him and taking a bottle from his table. “That Armagnac I mentioned earlier is yours for services rendered.” He proffers it with a smile. “I’m sure you’ll be needing a drink.”

With a slight shake of his head Athos declines and leaves the chambers, the rattle of his weapons echoing along the stone corridors, tempting him to return and dice Richelieu into chunks of meat for the hounds. One day he'll make the cardinal pay for his actions, but for now he can at least walk away from this relatively unscathed.

The courtyard is filled with the smell of charred wood and it's enough to remind Athos that what he did today was a good thing. Mounting his horse he rides, at a leisurely pace, to the village on the outskirts of Paris where he'd arranged to meet up with the Comtesse and Porthos. He's there well before them and, despite what he'd said to the cardinal earlier, is shaking from a desperate need to fall into the local alehouse and drink it dry. Resisting the urge, he sits on the edge of a stone trough letting the rain wash him clean as he makes do with swigs from a hip flask.

"How goes things, my friend?" calls Porthos as he arrives a few yards ahead of the cart.

He's covering well, but Athos can sense his panic. "I've had better days," he admits with a wry smile. "But I'm fine, just as I promised you I would be."

"You have no idea how happy I am to hear that." Porthos dismounts and tethers his horse to the post. "I'll leave you and the Comtesse to your goodbyes and see if there're any card players in that tavern who are willing to be fleeced."

Athos walks over to the small cart that has pulled up in a clearing not far from the village and Ninon steps down immediately to greet him. She's wearing a simple dress and woollen cloak and, in his eyes, is far more beautiful than when she was dolled up in finery. Only Anne has ever moved him in this way and that particular thought frightens him to death.

"What will you do now?" he asks.

"I'm thinking of opening a school for the daughters of the poor in Moret-sur-Loing. I have a house there that has lain empty for years. The cardinal has no knowledge of it and I can put it to good use."

"I’ll escort you," says Athos.

"No need at all," says Ninon and then steps closer to place a hand on Athos's cheek. "Take care, Athos. You've made an enemy of the cardinal today and he's a very dangerous man."

"I am aware." The rain is seeping through the crevices of his leather, soaking him until he's frozen to the bone.

"I could have loved a man like you," says Ninon unexpectedly.

She kisses him and he heaves in a sudden breath. Of fear? Panic maybe? "Then it's a pity neither of us are the marrying kind," he says, hoping that he can retain his senses for just a little longer.

"You know where I'll be," says Ninon as Athos helps her up onto the bench seat of the cart.

"I do, Comtesse," he answers, wiping the rain from his face.

"Just plain Madame now," she reminds him with a sad smile as the driver urges the horse to walk on.

They are so similar, Athos thinks. He abandoned his title; she had hers snatched from her. They're both lost souls.

He watches until the cart disappears from view around a bend in the lane and, from that moment on, he can no longer can ignore the screaming in his veins. Mounting his horse he rides like the Devil itself is chasing him, crossing Pont Neuf into Paris at such a pace that the guards are alerted and prepare for attack.

Throwing himself into the first tavern he comes to, Athos drowns his fears in a bottle of wine, and then a second, and then a third.

***

_The cardinal is seated at his desk. He tips Sestini's ashes into the caddy and fastens the clasp, then hands the box to his servant. "Have this delivered to Rome."_

_The man scurries out of the room and Richelieu looks up at Milady._

_"Find out where our former Comtesse is intending to make her home, will you," he says._

_“I am already aware of Madame de Larroque’s whereabouts." Milady casts an inquisitive eye over the papers on the cardinal's desk. "Dear Ninon was naïve in thinking she could trust her servants."_

_"This is why I pay you so well." The cardinal pours them both a drink from the bottle of brandy._

_"And how much will you pay for this particular piece of information?" says Milady, taking a sip._

 

ii)

 

"You could have told me you were escorting Mme de Larroque all the way to her destination," says Porthos when he spies Athos huddled over at one of the benches. "I came out ready to share my winnings and you were gone." After receiving no response he nudges Athos with an elbow. "You got a sore head?"

"I have." Athos looks at him with bloodshot eyes.

Still, thinks Porthos. He'd probably want to hide in his cups if he'd had to go through what Athos did yesterday.

They sit in companionable silence watching Aramis train d'Artagnan, attempting to instill some discipline into the young man who appears to have more of a spring in his step than usual.

"He'll be good one day," says Porthos.

"He's already good." Athos sighs. "Too good. He makes me feel old."

"That's just your gloomy disposition talking." Porthos looks at Athos properly for the first time today. The man seems shrunken somehow. "You are alright?" he asks in an undertone. The garrison isn't the best place for this kind of conversation.

Athos nods.

"I'm a good listener."

"And I'm a bad talker."

"Mme de la Chapelle," Porthos begins and falters immediately when he sees a darkness in Athos' eyes that does not belong there. He's about to attempt another line of questioning when Serge approaches to inform them that the captain has requested their presence in his office.

Aramis is there already and greets them with a welcoming smile.

"The young buck's spirited this morning," says Porthos.

"Indeed and I happen to know the reason for it," murmurs Aramis in a whispered aside.

Treville holds up a hand. "Save your gossip for an appropriate time, gentlemen" he says. "This afternoon the King is entertaining the Duke of Buckingham on an impromptu visit to his hunting lodge in Versailles," says Treville. "You three will accompany me there in order to protect His Majesty."

"From Buckingham?" asks Aramis irreverently.

"From danger," clarifies Treville, aiming a warning look in his direction. "As for you, Athos," he adds. "Restrain yourself in future. I don't wish to see you in this state again."

Athos acknowledges the captain's words with a barely perceptible nod of his head.

 

*

 

"It's a fine day for hawking, is it not, Buckingham?" The King dismounts with the aid of his groom and takes refuge from the sun under his canopied throne.

"It is indeed, Your Majesty. And I am truly grateful that you see fit to offer me this kindness at such short notice." The Duke seats himself next to the King and smoothes the wrinkles from his breeches.

Idiot dandy, thinks Porthos.

"We have resolved the issues concerning our mutual interests in the colonies," says the King. "It has been a good day all round, I think."

"Indeed, Sire," agrees Richelieu.

As the King signals for the chalices to be filled Buckingham turns his attention to the Queen. "Your Majesty," he says. "If you might permit me to say so, you are more beautiful than ever. More lovely than all the women in England combined."

The Queen smiles in delight. "I do not require your flattery, George, but I am most pleased, as always, to receive it."

"It is far from flattery, Ma'am, merely an observation."

Porthos watches Aramis during this flirtatious exchange and it bothers him to see that his friend has the markings of jealousy etched across his features. If only the King would react in such a way it would scotch the ugly rumours that are spreading out from the capital like a spider's web, reaching into every outlying region of the country. He prays that Aramis has the common sense not to take this affair with Queen any further than it has gone already. That would be an act of treason and there would be no saving him from the executioner's block.

Out of the corner of his eye Porthos notices the cardinal beckon Athos over and immediately turns his attention to them. Standing behind the dais he is in prime position to keep track of everything that is going on, although he is beginning to wish he was as oblivious to it all as Captain Treville.

"Athos, I have need of you this evening. Come to my private chambers in the Palais Royale. I will tell my guards to be expecting you."

Athos remains stony faced. "I cannot see how I can be of service to you, Your Eminence," he says in a low voice. "The contract between us has ended."

The cardinal sneers up at Athos and Porthos is tempted to punch him until he sees every star in the Heavens. "When, my dear Musketeer, did I ever say that it was a one time only arrangement? The agreement was that you would see to my needs in exchange for Mme de Larroque's safety. I can quite easily send my guards to..." He pauses. "Moret-sur-Loing? Yes, I am certain that is the place. I can send guards to Moret-sur-Loing to collect her, if you so wish."

The only sign of emotion on Athos's face is a slow blink of his eyes. "I will visit your chambers as you request," he answers passively.

Porthos cannot believe that Richelieu, whose audacity is equal to his depravity it seems, calls himself a man of the cloth. He looks right and left to discover whether anyone else has overheard the conversation and sees that he is the unfortunate sole recipient of this piece of information.

When the hunting party is over, the Musketeers escort the royal carriage from Versailles back to the Palais du Louvre and, once the King and Queen are safely ensconced in the palace, guard duty is finished and they are free to return to the garrison.

"I suggest we stable the horses and head to nearest taproom," says Aramis, as he tugs hard at the reins of his mare who's behaving skittishly after such a sweltering day. "I'm in need of a good drink."

Athos is expressionless. "I overdid it last night so I'll decline."

"When did that ever stop you?" Aramis leans over to pat him on the shoulder and Athos reacts immediately, as skittish as the mare had been earlier.

"Captain's orders," Athos says brusquely as he turns his horse to leave, but Porthos is quicker and blocks his path out of the gateway.

"I know where you're going," he mutters. "You don't have to lie down for that bastard."

"Tell me then," says Athos in a monotone. "What do you suggest I do?"

Porthos is helpless. What kind of friend is he if he cannot prevent this _thing_ from happening? "Treville?" he suggests.

Athos shakes his head. "The cardinal is the most powerful man in France and neither you nor I nor Treville can stop this from happening. All we can do is hope that he tires of me soon." He reaches out tentatively to lay a gloved hand on Porthos' arm. "I will live," he says quietly. "Perhaps you could ask Aramis to intercede with God on my behalf, although I doubt he will have time for me."

"My God has time for everyone," interrupts Aramis, who's been listening in unnoticed to their terse conversation. "You must not go to the cardinal again."

"I must and I will," says Athos, readying his horse for the off, and with that he canters around Porthos and out of the yard, raising an arm in farewell.

"Why doesn't he fight this?" Porthos dismounts and hands the reins of his horse to a groom then leans disconsolately against the wall, kicking at the stones in the crevices of the cobbles.

Aramis looks thoughtful. "Even if he doesn't know it yet, I think our friend is practicing self-flagellation."

"Eh?" says Porthos, who is struggling to see how whips come in to this matter.

"He's punishing himself for something and, until he decides to stop, there's little we can do to help him." Aramis sounds resigned. "We may as well drown our sorrows," he says, but Porthos will not be defeated.

"I'll not sit in the alehouse while Athos is suffering at the hands of that bastard."

"Then I'll gladly hear your suggestions," snaps Aramis, "because I, for one, am fresh out of ideas."

 

iii)

 

"This time you will take me in hand and mouth and when I tell you, you will stop immediately." There's a salacious expression twisting Richelieu's already twisted features that Athos knows has nothing to do with physical lust. He's greedy for corruption.

The cardinal opens his robe then wrinkles up the material of his nightgown in both palms until his erection and balls are exposed.

"Hand first," he instructs and as Athos touches him with a leather clad finger Richelieu is angered. "Did you think I would be happy to have those soiled items anywhere near me? Take them off."

Athos removes his gloves. He had been willing to sacrifice them for the cause and buy himself a new pair, but the cardinal has thwarted his plans. Maybe he could buy a new hand instead. The thought makes him smile and this apparently infuriates Richelieu more.

"Enjoying yourself now, I see," he spits.

"No." Athos might be on his knees in front of the man, but he's damned if he'll concede an inch.

"Take me in your hand and be tender."

It's a near impossible task to be gentle with such a loathsome object and Athos is left wondering whether he'll ever be able to see to his own needs after this business is over. He manages an erratic stroke up and down the length of the organ and is surprised when it grows ever more rigid. It could be worse; the cardinal could be lacking in potency and require a lot more of his attention.

"Your mouth," hisses Richelieu. "Pleasure me with your mouth now."

Athos does as commanded and bends to accept it between his lips. It's more revolting than ever. He had hoped he'd build up an immunity to it, the way he has with killing, but it's not happening yet.

A minute or so later the cardinal shouts, "Enough!" then grasps himself and, with fist flying, lets loose streams of ejaculate that spatter Athos in slimy trails of filth.

Athos wipes his face with the back of a hand, swallowing down the bile that's risen, and as he does so he hears a rustle coming from the doorway of the outer chamber. He hopes to God it’s servants rather than soldiers or, by tomorrow, this will have spread like wildfire throughout the Red Guard garrison.

Richelieu observes his every move. "You're remarkably unresponsive."

Athos stands and uses the cardinal's facilities to wash himself clean. "How do you wish me to respond?" he asks coldly.

For once Richelieu is silenced and sits at his desk to review the most recent Papal bull. "You may leave," he says as if it's an afterthought.

The moment Athos escapes the grounds of the palace his emotions come to the surface and he crumples. Anger, frustration, fear all unmask themselves and, as always, he hides his damage inside bottles of cheap wine.

It's an unending saga of misery. 

Again and again he is ordered to the cardinal's chambers until it becomes a war of attrition between them. As Athos continues to show no sign of emotion, Richelieu designs ever more degrading acts for him to perform.

"I will have you tonight," says Richelieu, one evening. "Bare your arse for me and bend over the desk."

He uses no oil to ease the path of entry. Athos is ripped apart, awash with a glorious pain that serves to remind him that this is no sex act. He can physically withstand the agony, but how much more of the mental punishment he can take he's not certain.

As the cardinal fucks him Athos plans myriad ways to kill the man and this helps take his mind off what is happening in the chamber.

"I _will_ break you, Athos." The cardinal is breathing heavily, building up to his finish. "I'll take you in front of your entire regiment if I must."

Athos has no reason to doubt him. He falls feverishly into his lodgings that night having doused himself repeatedly in a vat of ice water to wash off the cardinal's stink. He will not stand in the ranks beside good men and bring the name of the Musketeers into disrepute. By the small hours he has drunk a bottle of brandy. By morning he has lost his mind.

The days pass by in a blur of alcohol. Athos is not certain of anything, but the city walls he is propped against are unfamiliar so he believes he must have left Paris and doubts it was with permission from his commanding officer. He is out of money and out of luck. He's so hungover he's shaking and he craves a drink more than anything on this godforsaken earth, but the bottle beside him is as dry as the dust on which he is seated.

"You bloody idiot," says a voice and he looks up, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Treville is out to have your guts for garters. I think he means business when he talks of discharge."

It's Porthos and, whilst grateful to see him, Athos wishes he'd stop talking so loudly; the noise is only making his headache worse. He holds up the empty bottle in hope that his friend will take pity on him, but Porthos snatches it from his hand and casts it aside. Athos watches it roll away and come to a stop against the stone wall with a loveless chink.

"I've found his horse," says Aramis. "I had to buy it back. He'd sold it to an innkeeper for brandy."

"Athos, are you fit to ride?" asks d'Artagnan. His voice is more gentle than the others, but then he hasn't had to put up with this nonsense for as long.

"I think so." Athos doesn't want to suffer the indignity of being carted back to Paris, draped like a sack of potatoes over his horse's back. However, when he tries to stand, the world spins like a top and he bends over and vomits up the meagre contents of his stomach.

"Come on then," says Porthos. "I'll give you a leg up."

"Where are we?" he asks, once he is mounted unsteadily in the saddle.

"Provins," says Aramis. "Ring any bells?"

"No." He has no knowledge of this place. No idea why he came here. He's lost every single weapon he possessed along with every shred of dignity.

On the way back he begins to feel very wrong indeed. There’s something terrible coming for him. He catches sight of it in the trees and, after throwing himself off his horse, he cowers in the long grass. He's shivering, shaking, sweating and when Porthos turns him onto his back he sees it looming over them: a giant serpent with a wolf's head, slather dripping from its jaws as it prepares to devour them both.

"There's nothing there, you fool," says Porthos as Athos fights to get away.

"What's wrong with him?" asks d'Artagnan.

“The shakes," says Aramis matter-of-factly. "Drinking sickness. We need to get him back to Paris as soon as possible so we can dry him out. Porthos, can you manage him?”

“I’ll try, but don’t be surprised if his head meets the butt of my pistol at some point along the way.”

Porthos mounts his horse and d’Artagnan and Aramis help Athos up until he’s seated with Porthos’ arm wrapped around him.

“You fight me and I’ll throw you into the nearest river,” says Porthos. “You piss yourself, I’ll do the same, but I'll follow it up by drowning you. You hear me?”

“I understand.” Athos’s voice is a broken whisper. Too much brandy, too much vomit and too little water have left him a wasteland.

“Good man.”

The ride back to Paris is a nightmare. By the time they get there Athos is delirious with fever and seeing everything from imaginary children to towering monsters. He tries to fight the frenzy, but he's certain there's something terrible coming. His sanity is hanging by a thread.

They've come to a halt outside the garrison. Athos knows this from the distinctive aroma of black powder and manure. “Where to now?” says Porthos, his horse bucking a little, unhappy at having such a great weight to carry.

“The captain insisted we bring him immediately to his quarters once he’d been found,” says Aramis.

“And do we?” Porthos sounds unsure.

The decision is taken away from them when Treville appears from the shadowed entrance of the guard house. “I’ll take him from here,” he says, helping Athos off the horse. “He and I are no strangers to this.”

It's been three years since Athos was last under the wing of Treville and that time he'd vowed to his captain it would never happen again. In truth he assumed he’d be dead by now--Musketeers don't have a reputation for longevity--but perhaps his list of sins is too long to judge.

Treville helps him up the stairs and into the narrow wooden cot in the adjutant's room. It adjoins his own quarters and he'll be able to keep watch over Athos without giving up his own bed.

"Why do you keep doing this for me?" rasps Athos, his mouth as dry as a desert.

Treville is surrounded by a cloud of tiny winged creatures and although Athos tells himself they're not real, he has to swat them away as they swarm around his own face or he'll suffocate.

"I do it because you're an outstanding soldier and a good man." Treville mops the sweat from Athos' forehead and offers him water.

Athos drinks greedily and then collapses back onto the bed. "You shouldn't bother."

"I won't have to much longer. Another binge like that and you'll be dead rather than half dead, the way you are at present. Let go of the past, Athos. Stop allowing it to haunt you."

Athos instinctively searches for the locket that hangs on a thick silver chain around his neck, but it's gone. Lost along with the rest of his belongings in Provins, he supposes. It was the one thing that reminded him of the life he'd once lived and, unable to cope with its loss, he gives in to the delirium and drifts in and out of consciousness.

Days pass like clouds in a storm and, during the odd moment of clarity, Athos wonders what the rest of the regiment make of the ravings of a madman coming from the captain's quarters.

Aramis is away on a mission, but Porthos visits often and delights in telling him all the gossip.

"D'Artagnan is bedding Constance and they are truly in love, the boy tells me."

"I wonder if M Bonacieux is as happy," says Athos. "Still, we could all see it coming so he really should have been more attentive."

"It's good to have you back with us, my friend," says Porthos. "The regiment isn't the same without your smiling face."

"It'll have to do without me for a while longer," says Athos. "I'm going to stay with Mme de Larroque for a few weeks until I'm fully recovered."

"Anything that'll keep you out of harm's way is good," says Porthos "Does Treville know about this business with the cardinal?"

"No and I'd very much like to keep it that way."

"Understood." 

Porthos sits on the edge of the bed next to him and Athos tenses. He hopes it's imperceptible. "Keep an ear to the ground and listen out for Richelieu's plans whilst I'm away," he says. "I can protect Ninon when I'm with her, but I have to think of a way to ensure her safety in the long term. The cardinal holds all the cards at present."

"That man needs bringing to justice."

"Indeed." Athos has little desire to prolong this conversation. "Is there any other news from the ranks?" he asks in order to change the subject.

"There is." Porthos grins broadly. "D'Artagnan's officially training as a Musketeer."

"Our young friend is doing well for himself: a woman, albeit someone else's, and an income all in a matter of weeks." Athos slumps listlessly back on the bed. He's running out of steam, the cravings affect his appetite, and he hates his current weakened state.

Porthos notices and gets to his feet. "I'll leave you to rest," he says. "Swear you won't go anywhere until Aramis returns?"

Athos doesn't make promises as they invariably end up drowned at the bottom of a barrel, but he will do anything for his dearest friends and he inclines his head just enough to signal assent.

"I'll take that as a yes then," says Porthos as he leaves the room.

Athos can tell he's recovering when the days become everlasting and the sound of sword fighting in the yard below turns him green with jealousy. Treville is sympathetic and has sent a trusted messenger to inform Mme de Larroque of Athos' imminent arrival.

His uniform should feel like a second skin after living in it for the past five years, but the leather weighs heavy and reminds him all too much of that humiliating journey back from Provins.

"Perhaps this will make it seem more familiar." 

Aramis is standing in the doorway holding out his lost rapier and Athos is so pathetically grateful he cannot summon up words. His hands are shaking as he takes it and slots it into his sword belt and an abrupt, “Thank you,” is all he can manage.

“I couldn’t get your dagger or pistols back, but I did find this.” Dangling from Aramis’ fingers are the loops of a silver chain. “I recognised it immediately. It was purely by chance I came across it.” He drops the locket into Athos’s hand. “I believe it means something to you.”

“It does.” Right now it means a second chance.

***

_The cardinal paces his private quarters in the Palais Royale. "Where is your old friend Athos?" he demands._

_"I have no idea," says Milady, helping herself to a bonbon from the intricately wrought silver dish on his desk. "What do your spies think?"_

_"You are my spy," seethes Richelieu, his anger a palpable presence in the room._

_"Little voices tell me that a Musketeer is sick and living under the protection of Captain Treville. Perhaps that is Athos." She smiles pleasantly at the cardinal. "That's the extent of my knowledge."_

_"You act as if you're untouchable, Milady, but your worth to me will be short lived if you persist in this irreverent and heretical attitude."_

_"My worth to you is in the information I provide and it is that which ensures you retain your upper hand in all matters political." She leans in close. "Never threaten me again, Armand."_

 

iv)

 

The portable belongings Athos owns are in saddle bags on his horse and the remainder of his possessions have been left with Treville for safe keeping. He's said his farewells and is now riding for Moret-sur-Loing, unsure of what this new chapter will bring. It is a leave of absence, Treville has assured him, but it feels as if he's walking away from everything he knows and loves. Running away is perhaps a better description.

The weather is sublime, a perfect day to ride through the wooded landscape. It's been half a decade since he had time to stop, look, enjoy anything and he tries to remember how, in the blazes, to do it. The frenetic pace of his life has taken its toll.

Moret-sur-Loing is as peaceful as he could have wished for. He finds Ninon's house with ease, predictably the largest in the village, and stables his horse, feeding and watering her before bothering about the social graces.

Ninon meets him in the courtyard. "Athos, my dear," she says, greeting him as one would a long lost friend, or perhaps lover. Athos has never been good at making sense of women.

"Captain Treville says you have been ill and need to recuperate," she continues as she leads him across the cobbles and into the house.

"He's too kind." Athos sees no point in lying. "I'm a drunkard and Treville sees fit to dry me out once in a while," he says. "If you do not wish to harbour such a man then I understand completely."

"Athos," she says with a smile. "Your defensiveness is only superseded by your sadness. You saved my life and I will do anything in my power to return the favour. You will stay here with me until you are well."

"I'm grateful," he says honestly.

"As am I," says Ninon. "I need someone to help me restore this house into a fit state. I cannot make it a school with rivers of damp running off the walls and mould growing in every corner."

"I can do that."

"Good," she says. "Now I'm sure you must be hungry after the journey, so let's eat and discuss our plans."

The food is basic; Ninon's income is tiny and doesn't allow room for luxuries or servants, but she appears to be adapting to her change in circumstances with a joyful zest for life that Athos hopes will rub off on him. He prays that he has not endangered her life by coming here.

Weeks drift idly by, during which time Athos discovers an inner peace. He enjoys the manual work more than he ever thought possible. Days are spent whitewashing walls and learning how to fix rotten timbers, but the evenings are most pleasant of all when he and Ninon enjoy a simple meal, invariably served with plenty of complex conversation as they put the world to rights.

"This stew is delicious." Athos wipes his plate clean with a hunk of bread.

"I agree. Good, honest food is better than any of those ridiculous banquets at court," says Ninon. "I have to admit I'm enjoying my descent in status." She looks at Athos inquisitively. "And I rather think you understand me better than most."

"Save your fishing for the river," he says with a laugh and it's a sound that shocks him. A sound he hasn't heard himself make for years. "One day I'll tell you my sorry story, but for now let us be content as we are."

Together they clear the remains of the meal away and then sit by the fire. "There is gossip about us in the village," says Ninon as she warms her feet. "They cannot decide if we are siblings or lovers."

"They'd be disappointed with the truth," says Athos. "I hope the rumours don't lead to trouble. Try not to secrete any young women under your floorboards this time."

"Very amusing, my dear." Ninon smiles. "But remember, those girls begged me to keep them safe."

"You'll bring about a longer lasting change by doing it in increments," says Athos. "Encourage the girls to be educated by all means, but don't insist they become mistresses of their own destiny."

"Why ever not?" Ninon demands. "Why should you have the right to do entirely as you wish when neither I, nor the girls in the village, have any say in what happens to us?"

"If you think I follow my own path then think again. No person, male or female, is free from the chains of duty. Even the King is led around by a ring through his nose."

"But a man will never be beaten into submission because of his sex."

"You'd be surprised," says Athos, getting up from his seat, a dark mood taking over his previous good spirits. "I'll retire to bed I think. I have an early start tomorrow gathering the materials for the roof."

Ninon rises with him. "I hope I did not offend you. I enjoy our discussions so much, but I do realise I have a tendency to preach."

"Never," states Athos. She touched a nerve that was still raw, but she wasn't to know. "Your philosophy on life is fascinating," he says. "I'm just too tired to contribute tonight."

For the third time she kisses him full on the mouth and he allows himself the small pleasure of being wanted before pulling away from her and brushing a thumb across her cheek.

"Athos," she says, looking up at him, her face rosy from the warmth of the fire. "We live as husband and wife during the day and I enjoy sharing my time with you.” She pauses, blushing more as she gathers her thoughts. “I know I would enjoy sharing my bed with you also."

Ninon truly is a remarkable woman, unbounded by mores and convention, and Athos is honoured that she would choose him for a lover, but he can't. She is everything that he is not. "If things were different," he says sadly. "I told you I was married once, but the truth is I still am."

"And I told you that I will never be married," she insists. "No circumstances will ever change that."

"What if we were to sleep together and you should become pregnant?" asks Athos. "What then?"

"I'm educated." Ninon is determined. "I understand the cycles of my own body. I know how to prevent a child from being conceived."

"If it were that easy then there would be far fewer unwanted babies in the world." Athos thinks of Porthos and his upbringing as an orphan in the Cours des Miracles. It must have been hell. "I will not have a child of mine being brought up nameless."

"But who would ever know, Athos. Answer me that."

"I would." Athos steps away from Ninon and tamps down the smoking embers of the fire. "Let me sort out my affairs, please."

"You are the most honourable ingrate that I have ever had the pleasure to know."

The comforting hand on his back tells him that she is far from angry, but Athos has a dreadful feeling that his true reasons for rejecting her are far less chivalrous than those to which he has confessed. As they part on the landing and head for separate bedrooms he is filled with despair and for the first time in ages craves the solace that only wine can bring.

Next morning, however, domestic bliss resumes and continues this way for another week until matters, of an undesirable nature, come to a head. Athos is finishing work on the roof and is descending to collect a new stack of tiles when he realises that he is not alone. A troop of Red Guards are waiting for him at the bottom of the ladder.

"Athos of the King's Musketeers, we have a message from Cardinal Richelieu."

Something cold crawls up Athos's spine as he takes the paper and unfurls it. It is an immediate summons to the Palais Royale. He is under no obligation to comply as it is from the Cardinal rather than the King, but the message is full of thinly veiled threats towards Ninon and, moreso now than ever, he will not see her harmed. One way or another he will resolve this and if he ends up in front of a firing squad for it then at least he will have rid the world of something rotten in the process. Athos dismisses the soldiers with a curt nod.

"Is there a return message for the cardinal, Musketeer?"says the sergeant-at-arms.

"You may tell him I've read it." Athos has no intention of telegraphing his plans in advance, especially when he has yet to formulate any. Oh, how he misses having Porthos and Aramis at his side. They're known as The Inseparables for good reason; they do not function well alone.

At supper that night he broaches the subject of leaving. "Now that the major works on the house are finished I must return to Paris to sort out my personal affairs," he says brusquely.

"Will you return?"

"I don't know." He'd hate to deceive her. "I'm a soldier and am honour bound to serve the King."

"You will always be welcome here."

Ninon doesn't ask him to resign his commission and for that he is grateful.

 

*

 

Athos rides for Paris at first light. There is no point in delaying his departure as it will only put his hostess at greater risk.

His muscles have returned to full strength from months of physical labour and he hopes his spirit is equally as resilient. His immediate plan is to return to the garrison and the closer he gets to home the lighter his mood becomes at the thought of seeing his companions once again. Richelieu is a problem to be dealt with, nothing more.

Having told no one of his return he still takes no chances and keeps his uniform and weapon covered by a cloak, well hidden from prying eyes. It therefore comes as a surprise to him when he is waylaid in the shadows of l'eglise Saint-Germain and dragged from his horse.

Outnumbered vastly, it's a fight he's never going to win, but he puts up a battle and attempts to take down as many of his assailants with sword and fist before he is defeated. Grappling hard with one of the men he rips away the bandana that is covering their face and recognition brings with it the inevitability of his fate. Unconsciousness comes as a welcome relief.

He comes to suffering immense pain from where he has been chained to a cell wall. His shoulders and wrists are in agony from hanging as a dead weight and as he attempts to stand, the rush of blood to his veins causes him an even greater amount of hurt.

Trained to withstand most things he barely makes a sound as his limbs slowly regain feeling, but on opening his eyes he is privy to a most unwelcome sight.

"My dear boy," says the cardinal. "I had hoped we'd meet under better circumstances, but it seemed that you were intent on returning to your fold rather than accepting my invitation, and my men were under strict orders to ensure that you came straight to the palace."

"Why?" Athos' mouth is so dry that he can barely speak.

"Because it pleases me, Athos, nothing more." Richelieu begins his habitual routine of pacing. "You are a pastime, a hobby. I like to toy with you and I will see you broken."

He pours a glass of wine from a carefully constructed montage of crystal decanter and silver tray perched on a decidedly out of place table.

"You won't," replies Athos. "I do what you ask for the sake of the Comtesse de Larroque and that is all."

"Ninon?" Richelieu laughs heartily and swallows down the contents of his glass. Pouring another he wafts it under Athos' nose. "I've got everything I want from her: her fortune. She brings out the honour in you, but she doesn't make you weak at the knees, does she Athos?"

Athos stares blankly at the grey stone wall in front of him. Little does he know it, but the cardinal has just handed over the reins.

"You stand there in court, Treville's favourite guard dog, full of repressed airs and graces, full of disdain and I want to know how far you'll bend before you break." 

Richelieu's words are slurred from drink and hatred and Athos wonders what he has ever done to inspire such intensity of emotion.

"Did you actually entertain the idea that I wanted you?" Richelieu snorts derisively.

"I entertain no ideas of you whatsoever, Your Eminence."

The fury on Richelieu's face is straight from a portrait of hell. Reaching for Athos he rips open the fastenings of his breeches and kneads at his cock. It remains entirely unmoved and Athos finds the situation quite laughable. He is as silent as the grave.

"Your potency is lacking," says Richelieu, ending his pointless ministrations.

"No, only my desire."

Athos has never been so vulnerable and yet, at the same time, felt so powerful. The cardinal has nothing left with which to bargain. The one thing he appears to crave is for Athos to submit to him completely and that will never happen. He has ownership of him in body, but never in soul. The absence of alcohol has brought things into sharp relief and now, in conceding to the cardinal’s demands, Athos has found, within himself, a hiding place.

"You are a corruption in the eyes of God." Pouring the remains of the decanter into a glass Richelieu drains it in one go. "I shall leave you in the hands of my exorcists."

Athos has never understood Aramis' devotion to God and how it contradicts with his capacity for soldiering and womanising. It is a childish thing, he thinks, to put one's faith in the belief that there is an afterlife: a better life. If Cardinal Richelieu is an example of God's ministry then Athos would gladly fall to his knees and swear fealty to the Devil, for it could be no worse a master.

The cardinal's exorcists are relentless: malevolent hooded creatures who strip him naked and demand a confession, to what he is uncertain. They inspect every inch of his body for evidence of his diabolical intent and then the torture begins. Thumb screws are an appetiser until his nerves scream in agony when wooden shards are driven under his fingernails. The water torture takes him to the edge of drowning and then he is chained back to the cell wall and left to reflect upon his sins until the next day dawns and the cycle begins again.

 

v)

 

Porthos loves training d'Artagnan in the art of hand to hand combat. The boy is a born fighter with such an indomitable spirit that he never gives in. It's actually quite an effort now for Porthos to defeat him.

"D'Artagnan!"

Except when he's distracted by his woman. Chivalry disagrees with Porthos and he grabs the opportunity to upend the young man and leave him flat upon his back in a pile of straw.

"Dirty tactics," frowns d'Artagnan, getting to his feet and brushing away the muck. "Constance, what are you doing here?"

"Milady de Winter." Constance spits out the name. "She told me to bring this to you." She hands a letter to d'Artagnan. "Told me your friend would not survive another night in the dungeons of the Palais Royale. Who does she mean?"

A creeping feeling of dread inches its way through Porthos. He knows of only one person to whom this could refer. But surely Athos is safely away from Paris. 

The three men exchange worried looks.

"Can we trust her?" says Porthos. D'Artagnan has mentioned this woman before.

"I have no idea," says Aramis. "But I don't see we have a choice." Taking the letter from Constance he unfurls it and scans the contents. "She says the guards will be taken care of at midnight tonight. There's a map of the palace dungeons."

"It must be a trap," says d'Artagnan warily. "I've told you how she operates."

"Yes," says Porthos, "but it's Athos so we will go anyway." He pauses and looks up to the gantry. "Do we tell Treville?"

"If we do then we have to tell him the whole story," says Aramis, looking from Porthos to d'Artagnan. "I believe we should hold fire and see what we find there tonight."

Constance shivers. "I don't know what's going on, but I'll pray that you'll all be safe."

"We appreciate your intercession, Madame," says Aramis and he and Porthos leave the young lovers alone a moment to say their goodbyes.

"This doesn't bode well," says Porthos grimly. If Richelieu has damaged Athos or worse then he'll tear him limb from limb and no one will stop him.

"Be calm," says Aramis who knows him better than anyone. "Wait until we get there before you plan your revenge."

 

*

 

They take a skiff up the Seine to the tunnel entrance, Porthos rowing it himself rather than putting their trust in one of the river boatmen. They have come to learn that Richelieu has spies everywhere.

The iron gate is unlocked, just as Milady had told them it would be, and navigating the boat into the tunnel, using the oars to push against the side of the stone walkway, Porthos ties up and they climb out.

The beam of a lantern spills out over the granite floor revealing spatters of blood and Porthos suspects that the body of a guard lies weighted at the bottom of the channel. This Milady, whoever she might be, is a ruthless woman.

Expecting to encounter resistance along the way, the three men are surprised to discover there is none as they follow the quickly drawn map of the dungeons which leads them to a solitary cell at the far end of a passageway.

Porthos has been through the worst of battles and seen all manner of violence inflicted on a human being, but he is unprepared for this.

"Help me get him down," says the woman, a hooded cape concealing her identity. "I cannot lift him on my own."

The men rush over to where Athos is hanging chained and unconscious on the wall and, for a moment, Porthos fears it is a bloodied corpse he is handling, the body is so cold, so still, so broken. 

As they lift him Athos cries out in agony and, petrified, his eyes open wide for a moment as Milady unfastens his manacles.

"His shoulders are both dislocated," says Aramis as they lay him on the cell floor. "Athos, listen to me." He unstraps a belt from his waist and folds the end over on itself. "I must rehouse both joints into their sockets if we are to move you and you must be as quiet as possible while I am doing it. Bite down on this." He places the leather between Athos' teeth. "I have to do this if we're to get you out of here."

"Hurry," insists Milady. "There will be a change of guard soon and you must get him away from here before then."

Porthos looks away as Aramis readies himself and the crunch and the snapping sound is still enough to make him heave. D'Artagnan, who was watching, turns away to throw up in the corner of the cell.

"It's done," says Aramis, strapping his belt back on. "We'll find out later whether the nerves are trapped. He's unconscious again, thank God."

Porthos takes off his cloak and, wrapping it around Athos' frozen body, he picks him up, leaving d'Artagnan to collect his belongings from where they have been discarded on the cell floor. Richelieu never intended Athos to survive this torture.

"Go," says the woman and she pulls the hood away from her face, revealing dark hair and green eyes.

"Mme de la Chapelle," says Aramis in confusion. "I thought you were supposed to be Milady de Winter."

"She is," says d'Artagnan curtly.

“Indeed I am.” Milady looks around at the men, a hint of a smile on her face. "Or, as I was once known, the Comtesse de la Fère. Please take my husband somewhere he'll be safe." She looks down at the unconscious man in Porthos' arms and, just for a moment, rests a gloved hand against his cheek. "I’m the only one who is allowed to hurt him," she says and then she leaves the cell.

On any other day this information would throw all three of them into a turmoil, but for now they have one thing on their minds and that is to escape the dungeon whilst Athos is still alive.

The return journey through the tunnels is not as easy. The guards have been alerted and Aramis and d'Artagnan have to battle their way back to the gate with Porthos between them, unable to do anything more than look after Athos.

The man stirs a little as they load him into the skiff with Aramis firing both his arquebus and Porthos' pistol into the passageway to pick off the remaining two guards.

"Keep hold of him," says d'Artagnan to Porthos, taking the oars as Aramis opens the iron gate and pushes at the skiff before jumping into the prow.

"Make sure he stays as warm as possible." Aramis takes off his own cloak and wraps it around Athos' body as added insulation.

"Will he survive this?" asks Porthos quietly as d'Artagnan rows them downstream.

"If the cold or infection doesn't take him then yes, it's possible," says Aramis, but he sounds bleak. "From what I can see they've flayed strips of his skin, they've used thumbscrews on him and they've branded him with irons. It may be much worse than that."

"We must tell Treville everything," says Porthos.

"No," says Athos in a hoarse whisper.

Porthos is overjoyed that Athos is well enough to speak, but he will not acquiesce to him this time. "The captain must know and he must decide how to deal with the cardinal." He presses his lips against Athos' forehead and tastes blood. "Think carefully because if he can do this to you, he can do it to anyone. He must be stopped."

"Did he speak?" asks Aramis.

Porthos nods. "A little," he says gruffly. The single word was enough to warm his heart and give him hope.

It's a short walk from the river to the garrison and even when Aramis offers to assist, Porthos will not relinquish his load. Athos is warm against him now and he will keep him so at all costs.

It may be the small hours of the morning, but Aramis doesn't think twice about rousing the captain. Athos must be put to bed and tended to immediately and the obvious place is in the room adjoining Treville's.

"He's badly injured," says Aramis as he blusters through office and bedroom and on into the adjutant's quarters. "He needs attention now."

"Who does?" asks Treville, pulling on breeches, boots and shirt and following his men in a bewildered state.

"Athos," says d'Artagnan as Porthos lays the naked man on the bed and Aramis hurries off for boiled water and medical supplies.

Treville rubs tired eyes and looks down in horror at the wounds. "This can only be a result of torture," he says. "Who did this to him? I'll have every man in Paris looking for the bastard and when I find him I'll make sure he's hanged, drawn and quartered twice over."

Athos' eyes are open again and he gives Porthos a warning look.

"It was Richelieu," says Porthos, ignoring his friend and d'Artagnan nods in confirmation.

“Do you know this for a fact?" says Treville as he paces the floorboards.

"We were informed he was being held in the cardinal's dungeons and we rescued him from there tonight." Porthos keeps his eyes fixed on Athos.

"God alone knows how long he'd been there," says Aramis, returning with supplies.

"But why would Richelieu do such a thing?" asks Treville in consternation.

"Because he's a monster," spits d'Artagnan and then he bites his lip and falls silent.

"The cardinal has been blackmailing him since the trial of the Comtesse de Larroque," says Aramis as he cleans the flayed patches on Athos' upper torso.

Porthos wants to comfort Athos, but there is nowhere to touch that has been left undamaged. "He forced him to perform certain favours in return for Ninon's life. We were there when he demanded it. D'Artagnan is right; the man is a monster and needs bringing to justice."

Treville leans over the bed. "Athos, is what they say true?"

Athos is still and silent and Porthos watches his throat move. "Yes," he croaks. "It is. May I have some water?"

Treville holds his head and puts a cup to his lips for him to sip. "Richelieu will pay for this," he says, rigid with anger.

Athos swallows with difficulty and pushes the cup away. "The King-"

"The King is an idiot," says Treville.

"Which is why he needs Richelieu," says Athos in that painfully hoarse voice. "When he finds out I am back here at the garrison he will realise that you know the truth and that the jig is up. It will be enough to make him think twice."

"Rest now," says Treville. "We'll talk more when you're recovered."

"I need to examine those hands first," says Aramis gently.

Athos holds them out and Porthos almost breaks down when he sees the extent of the damage. All the nail beds are shredded. The thumb of his left hand is severely crushed and several fingers are broken. No one asks the question that is uppermost in their minds: what place is there in the Musketeers for a swordsman who has lost the use of his hands?

When Aramis finishes dressing the last of Athos' wounds Porthos is pleased to see that the man has fallen asleep without need of spirits to ease the pain. "I'll stay with him," he says, despite the fact he is dog tired.

"We'll take shifts," says Treville. "Though he seems remarkably resilient."

"Be prepared because infection may set in," warns Aramis.

"I'll sit with him first," says Porthos. He needs a quiet moment alone with Athos in order to take in the horrific events of the day and reassure himself that everything is well. Just a few short hours ago he was certain Athos was safely ensconced in the bed of Madame de Larroque and now this. "You’re a mystery, my friend," he says once they are on their own. "First we find out you’re a nobleman and now it turns out you're married to the cardinal's assassin. Whatever next?"

Athos opens his eyes a little and manages a flicker of a smile. "Nothing more," he murmurs. "You know all of me now."

“I doubt that,” smiles Porthos.

“She was there?” asks Athos. “I thought I must be dreaming.”

“She was there and it is because of her that you are alive and safe.”

A look of utter relief passes across Athos’ face and he reaches instinctively for the locket.

“It’s with your clothes,” says Porthos. “I’ll get it for you.”

“No,” says Athos, laying a bandaged hand on Porthos’ arm. “I no longer need it.”

***

_"One of my prisoners has apparently gone missing from the dungeons," says Richelieu, steepling his fingers and staring at Milady who stares back and glides a little closer to perch, in her usual fashion, on the edge of his desk._

_"How careless of you," she says with a smile. "I hope he’s not a danger. You really ought to post guards down there. These criminals can be as slippery as eels."_

_"I did," says Richelieu. "Three of them turned up dead in the Seine. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you, Milady?"_

_"Of course not," she says, leaning in conspiratorially close. "After all I only dispose of those you instruct me to kill. That was our agreement."_

_"And how is your dear husband?" he says with an ugly smirk._

_"Dead,” she says sadly. “Several years ago now. An unfortunate incident. Poor John."_

_“The other husband,” says Richelieu._

_“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Milady replies, her eyes glinting like steel.  
_

 

vi)

 

It takes a while for recovery to begin. Infection sets in leaving Athos fevered and delirious and once he finally fights this off he’s in such a weakened state he can barely get out of bed to use the chamber pot.

He'd dearly love to go back to his lodgings, but he's been away for so long that they have been let to a new tenant, the few possessions he left behind still safely stashed away in Treville's office.

"I'm homeless," he complains as Aramis sits on the bed next to him, unwinding the bandages from his hands.

"You're nothing of the sort and you know it." Aramis smiles at him. "Think of it as having no quartering charges to pay. Now squeeze my hand and show me how much strength is returning to those fingers."

"I doubt I'll ever be a swordsman again," says Athos in a fit of despair, not uncommon to him at the moment.

"I doubt it too with that kind of attitude," says Aramis. "Now put some effort in or I'll bring you more of that soup d'Artagnan made."

Athos winces, not from pain, but from the memory of that dreadful meal. The boy swore blind that the broth had restorative powers, but he certainly lacked finesse in the kitchen.

"See, I made you smile," says Aramis. "Now squeeze my hand as if you mean it." He grins. "Strong enough to handle a horse, I think. Get dressed and we'll go for a ride. You must be sick of the sight of these four walls."

Athos wants to tell Aramis to leave him be, but, more than that, he wants to be well and useful again and the only way to get there is to knuckle down and put in the hours.

It takes him a while to dress, the mental preparation more time consuming than the many buckles and buttons that need fastening, but eventually he’s up, shaky on his feet and unsteady on the steps, but determined to get down them without falling.

"You ready, Athos?" says Porthos, watching like a hawk as he mounts his horse.

"As I'll ever be," says Athos. The reins feel loose in his gloved hands and his leg muscles aren't what they used to be, but he _will_ do this.

 

*

 

The day has arrived when Athos is fit enough to resume duties at the palace. He lines up with his fellow Musketeers to protect the King and Queen as they are visited by members of the Dutch royal family in order to seal a strategic new alliance.

After the reception is over Richelieu sidles up to him. "A word with you in private, if I may, Athos."

Athos stares disdainfully at the cardinal.

"You may not," says Treville, stepping in. “In fact if you so much as look at one of my men again I’ll tell the King and Queen exactly how you misused your powers to extort the Comtesse de Larroque’s estate from her by means of calumny. They were both very fond of the lady in question as I recall."

The cardinal looks flustered and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Athos. “I trust matters can be put to rest.”

“They can indeed, your Eminence,” says Athos in the most genteel of voices. “I hope, now that this is resolved, you will sleep soundly at night.”

It’s a veiled threat, but the look on Richelieu’s face makes it clear that he understands the implication well enough.

Athos can’t wait to get away from the palace and as he rides side by side with his friends he heaves in a deep breath of relief. It’s been a difficult year to say the least and not one he would ever want to experience ever again, but he’s come through it intact.

He needs to regain his strength before he’s ready for active service, but in many ways he’s tougher than before. He hasn’t taken in so much as a mouthful of wine since his humiliation in Provins and Anne’s locket no longer drags him down, but, above all, he has absolute proof that he and his friends are indeed inseparable and long may they remain that way.

“That was a good one back there,” laughs Aramis. “Next time we see Richelieu I’ll wager he’ll have matching rings of dark circles under his eyes.”

“I was close to giving him some dark circles myself,” growls Porthos. He leans over and punches Athos on the arm. “You coming to the alehouse tonight?”

“To carry you home or defend your honour when a king slips out of your sleeve?” asks Athos.

“Both of course,” laughs d’Artagnan. “I’ll race all of you back to the Wren.”

“You’re on,” yells Aramis as encouragement.

The three men watch their young friend gallop off with matching affectionate smiles. “How long will it take him to notice this time?” says Porthos. “I bet he’ll go a mile at least.”

“An impossible wager because how can we ever know?” says Aramis.

A scowling d'Artagnan eventually canters back to join them and Athos listens to the three men argue back and forth, happy in the knowledge that he is safe and sound and exactly where he is meant to be.

 

\---end


End file.
